


Cloaked Heart

by cumbersnatch



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Minor Violence, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Switch Sherlock Holmes, Top John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23931364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumbersnatch/pseuds/cumbersnatch
Summary: Holmes and Watson are sent on an interesting case after months of boredom (that caused Sherlock to go a little bit crazy). Their adventure goes a little out of hand, causing one of them to admit some hidden feelings - and things peak for the both of them.
Relationships: Johnlock
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi ! i'm really sorry if this story is not as amazing as everybody elses, i'm not much of a new writer but i still suck at writing so if anybody's reading this, enjoy i guess lmfao, also sorry for the cringy ass title i'm unoriginal LOL, this book also will have multiple chapters as it's not a one-shot.

221B Baker Street, where everything started with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. The two men were always out on a case somewhere - most of them were quite dangerous; some of them took months to solve. But no matter what, they always found a way to solve the case - well, mostly Sherlock. 

Gunshots rang out from the inside of the flat. A frustrated shout came after. "Bored!"

A tall man, about 6 feet in height, paced around a dusty room, a gun in his shaking hands. He aimed it toward the wall in front of him, at a yellow smiley-face drawn on with spray-paint, and pulled the trigger multiple times, the bullets penetrating the face - and the wallpaper. "Bored!" the man shouted again as he threw the gun on the ground. It landed with a harsh _thump._ The man plopped down on his armchair. His hands shook rigidly. He put his hands together and closed his eyes, seeming to be deep in thought. That was soon interrupted with the sound of a door flying open.

"Christ, Sherlock!" another voice hollered. It was slightly higher and sounded quite frustrated. He came into the room, his eyes fixated on the other man in the chair. "You're going to give me tinnitus."

"I'm bored, John!" the man stood up, his head turning toward the gun. He attempted to grab it again, but John grabbed his shaking hand and pulled him back while also grabbing the gun and tucking it into his back pocket.

"No. No more guns."

Sherlock stared at John, frustrated. He looked like he hadn't slept in ages. His eyes were red, he was slowly starting to grow facial hair, and his curly dark hair was all messy. He smelled like he hadn't showered in a few days. He wasn't wearing his usual black suit and coat. Instead, he had on gray sweatpants and a baggy jacket. It wasn't very flattering to see him like this. "John, I need a case," he said with his voice trembling. He put his hands on the shorter man's shoulders. He was shaking. The only cause of this problem was drugs.

John gazed into Sherlock's tired red eyes. He couldn't stand the sight of seeing his best friend like this. "Sherlock, are you using again?" he asked with a worried tone to his voice. Usually when Sherlock didn't have a case for a while, he...did drugs to cure his boredom. It was too much to handle for John. He promised Sherlock he wouldn't put up with this, but it was hard not to help his friend.

The detective glared at the doctor, stepping away. "That's preposterous," he growled out as he sat back down in his armchair. "Why would I do that?" Sherlock looked down at his shaking hands, then at John. He hid his hands. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Shut up!" Sherlock looked away. He despised the idea of John being upset with him - it just made him even more upset.

"Using will make things worse, you know." John's gaze burned into the back of Sherlock's head. "I know we haven't had any cases in a while but I'm sure one will pop up. Just be patient and-"

Sherlock interrupted with a rude remark. "It is very bold of you to assume I have patience, Watson," he replied, turning his head to glare at the doctor, who returned his unpleasant glower. John was used to Sherlock's attitude. He learned to not take the detective's words to heart. Usually, Sherlock never meant what he said, especially when he said it to John. He would hate to hurt his closest friend. "Also, I am not using." Biggest lie ever. Sherlock hated when John saw him in a vulnerable position such as this.

John grabbed Sherlock and lifted him off of his armchair, earning an upset exclamation from the poor man. "You're high off your tits!" the doctor yelled into the other's face.

"You're angry with me," Sherlock deducted with a smart-arse tone to his voice, his blue eyes staring into John's own. It wasn't a surprise; John was always mad at Sherlock, but he didn't blame him.

"Where'd you get that idea?" John asked sarcastically as he gently grabbed Sherlock's left arm. Sherlock pulled it away, clear annoyance on his face. It pissed him off when John grabbed him like this. John looked up at Sherlock and grabbed his arm again, lifting up the sleeve. His arm was full out bruised and he had small cuts scattered all around his pale skin. "Not using, huh?" he huffed, stepping away from Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled his sleeve down quickly and crossed his arms in a pouting position. "I do what I want. You can't control me." John always mothered Sherlock - if that was the proper word. He worried that one day Sherlock would accidentally kill himself - but they both know the detective was much too smart to do that.

A look of pure fury spread upon John's face. "I'm sorry? I'm trying to make sure you don't kill yourself. You put this shit in your body and you expect me not to worry?" the man yelled out, walking over to the kitchen. He picked up a small plastic bag of what seemed to be cocaine, which Sherlock rarely used. Out of anger, he opened the bag and dumped it into the sink next to him, washing it down the drain.

Sherlock let out a shriek and ran over to the sink. It was all washed down. "What a waste of good cocaine," he muttered as he walked away, putting his hood over his head. 

"What a waste of good brains!" John yelled back, walking around the corner. He saw Sherlock laying on the couch, back to him, head covered. "You're pouting because I care for your well-being." The doctor crossed his arms and walked over to Sherlock, sitting in the small space that the man left on the couch. He hesitantly put his hand on Sherlock's leg, who slightly flinched.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't."

"You know I care about your health-"

"Shut. Up."

They both glared at each other; blue eyes to blue eyes. They were silent for a few minutes. This happened only when they were both equally mad at each other, and it ended when one of them wanted to speak. They were both too stubborn to talk first, so it usually went on for a long time. Once it went on for almost an hour until John had to go to the loo. Mrs. Hudson sometimes walked in on them and by now, she didn't question it.

John was getting quite impatient. His lips parted to speak, but Sherlock, surprisingly, spoke first.

"Wait. Do you hear that?" the detective broke eye contact and got up from the couch. It was footsteps. "Tense footsteps. Heavy, yet quiet." Sherlock turned his head to face John, who looked at him with understanding.

"Client," they both said in unison. 

Sherlock stood. "Finally! Don't be shy," he called out to the stranger who was most likely outside the door, "come in!" The two men sat in their traditional armchairs and watched as the client slowly walked into the room. Sherlock started to find any little detail about this stranger, which he did in a matter of a few seconds. The basic appearance of the stranger was that they had a small black hat covering half of their face - eyes and nose. They were wearing a black leather jacket and a white t-shirt underneath (don't ask how Sherlock noticed that). Then they had black jeans on, not very taken care of which Sherlock could tell from the dirt specks and rips on them. Oh, and they were a guy. It was obvious from the walking pattern he has and how heavy the footsteps were.

Sherlock kept those thoughts to himself for now. "Start talking. And don't be boring."

The client cleared his throat as he sat down in the "client chair."

"My name is Atticus. I have an interesting case for you."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get informed about case. Sherlock finally takes a shower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i'm trying really hard to come up with a creative enough case, as you can tell i struggle to make things like these creative so just bear with me lmao

Both of the men's eyes and ears were keenly focused on the client, who spoke slowly but clearly to them. Sherlock, of course, was focused more - his body leaned forward, eyes staring straight ahead, hands together and close to his lips; his usual thinking position.

"I believe there is a secret organization working right under your noses." As the client spoke, his voice sounded dry and hoarse, as if he hadn't talked to anyone in a while. Sherlock made a mental note to himself that Atticus did not live with anyone. Atticus pulled out a phone from his back pocket. He tossed it to Sherlock, who casually and quickly caught it out of reflex. The detective looked down at the phone screen - there were pictures. It was graffiti on a gray stone wall with red spray-painted symbols that he didn't quite understand. He looked back up at Atticus, raising an eyebrow.

"Continue."

Atticus nodded slowly, then spoke again. "I recognize the graffiti. I was once part of a gang-"

"Yes, I know," Sherlock interrupted abruptly with a hint of boredom in his voice. His eyes lowered to Atticus' arms. "The occult symbol on your left arm that was poorly covered by makeup clearly shows it. Keep speaking. I won't interrupt." He leaned forward again, a small smirk creeping on the corner of his lip. He heard a scoff from John.

The client narrowed his eyes at him, looking clearly irritated, before continuing. "I don't know where they are, who they are, or what they are planning to do, but the symbols should be enough to get you going. I was hoping you could try to put an end to them, if there even is one running. Look at the other pictures."

Sherlock listened as he put his finger to the screen again, swiping left. What he saw did not surprise him - a corpse. It was a woman, young, maybe in her 20's. Sherlock had seen his fair share of dead people. "The body is next to the graffiti. Her murder is definitely related to it," Atticus added.

"Where is this?" Sherlock asked as he set the phone down next to him. Being physically there helped him make his deductions more clearly.

Atticus told the two men the location, which was not very far from here. Sherlock guessed it would take about 20 to 25 minutes by taxi to get there. He nodded slowly as he swiped through the rest of the pictures, then he tossed the phone back to Atticus, who swiftly caught it. He had quite amazing reflexes. 

The client was silent for a few moments, then parted his mouth to speak. "The occult symbol...how did you see it?" Atticus asked with a slight tilt of his head. A small smile creeped up Sherlock's lips. He had extraordinary attention to tiny details such as the half-covered symbol on Atticus' arm. Nobody "normal" could casually find it like that. 

"I simply observed," Sherlock replied gently, leaning back into his chair and silently staring at Atticus.

After a few moments of silence, Atticus spoke again. "What else can you find out me?" he said, a challenging tone to his voice. He took off his hat, revealing his full face - dirty blonde hair, looking like it hadn't been washed in weeks, and solid brown eyes, along with a wrinkled, aged face. "Enlighten me, Mr. Holmes."

"No, I-I don't think you want him to-" John's words were drowned out by Sherlock's as the detective started to speak.

"You live alone and you are alone. When you first spoke, your voice sounded hoarse, like you don't talk to people that much, leading me to deduce that nobody lives with you. You're a nature man. Your clothes look hardly washed and you barely take care of yourself. This means that nobody is ever around you so you never have to present yourself accordingly, and you don't live in the city. You live alone, isolated, with the only company of nature. Now, you had a younger wife, but she died. Natural causes, perhaps? The absence of a ring but the slight scar shape of a ring on your finger reveals that. You always wore the ring even when she passed, but your finger grew, and the ring became too tight for you. You had to cut it off, reluctantly. You're a widower. You're also an insomniac. The whole time you've been with us you've been twitching, a sign of anxiety, which is common in insomniacs, and you have dark bags under your eyes, revealing that you never sleep and that you can't sleep. I could say more, but it's a lot to unpack. Am I right or am I right?" Sherlock stopped, took a deep breath, and gazed into Atticus' eyes.

The room was silent for a couple moments.

"Yes...you are...right. That was...quite right." Atticus looked up at Sherlock with a hint of dejection in his brown eyes. Sherlock then realized he hit a deep spot in Atticus and he cleared his throat apologetically. No matter what, he always seemed to hurt somebody's feelings. 

"My apologies. I do tend to get a bit carried away..."

Atticus shook his head gently. "No, no, it is alright," he said with a deep chuckle, standing up. "I suppose it's time for me to part. Good day to you boys - I do hope the information I gave you is useful enough." He bent down to grab his hat and slipped it on his head, before turning and leaving the flat. He shut the door behind him. His footsteps grew fainter as he walked down the stairs. Sherlock heard a scoff of disbelief from John. He turned around and gazed at his friend with narrowed blue eyes. John was probably going to complain about the fact that he hurt Atticus' feelings with the harsh deductions. He really didn't understand human emotions - they were confusing to him; like an unstudied subject in school.

"You need to work on saying your words with at least some care - to show you at least have some sympathy for them," John said as he stood up and strode over to Sherlock. He was about to start the usual scolding that Sherlock heard too many times.

"But I don't."

The shorter man stared up at Sherlock with pursed lips and a slightly disappointed yet amused look in his eyes. "Go get cleaned up. I don't want to be seen walking around the city with a hobo," he lightly joked, earning a good-natured, deep laugh from Sherlock, which made John let out a small chuckle as well. 

"Aye, captain," the detective replied with a smug smile. He left the room, entering the bathroom. He hadn't taken a shower in quite a long time. He couldn't imagine how John felt about this. Well, honestly, he didn't give any shits. He stared at the bathroom with an emotionless expression. There were a few gunshots on the walls from Sherlock that they didn't bother to fix. Other than that, the bathroom seemed pretty neat. The kitchen was the one fucked up with all of Sherlock's science experiments. A head in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, you know, the usual.

He shut the door and stripped himself of his dirty, druggie clothes, then looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes dimmed as he stared at his lanky, beat-up body. Sherlock had always loathed his appearance. Every single part of him. He never complained to anyone, not even Mycroft. He always thought of his hands too bony, his cheekbones too high, his face too...gaunt. He had really no clue what others saw in him. Sherlock ripped his eyes away from his body and opened the door to the shower, stepping inside. He lifted the knob up and toward the hot side and warm water started to run down his body. He stared at the floor. The water was turning a light shade of brown. He was that dirty. John was probably so disappointed in him. _John._ Sherlock could never stop thinking about him; thinking about how John thought of him. Why John wanted to...be with him.

Sherlock wanted to physically kick away his thoughts. He loathed how his mind always ran faster than the speed of light. He wished he could just have a normal brain. John was so lucky; he was a simple man with a simple mind. The tall man closed his eyes, slightly leaning against the shower walls as hot water ran down his body.

He must've been in the shower for a long time, because a loud banging on the door along with "Sherlock!" being shouted by John caused him to break out of his thoughts. "What?" Sherlock shrieked as he turned off the shower and put a towel around his body. He opened the door to see an angry John staring at him with pursed lips and narrowed blue eyes.

"It's been 45 bloody minutes! You know we have water bills, right? What were you even doing in there?" the doctor said in an irritated manner. He looked down at the black clothes in his hands. "Your clothes. Get dressed. Lestrade called and we have get down to the crime scene." He shoved the clothes into Sherlock's chest, glaring up at him.

Sherlock blinked slightly, his eyes lowering to his clothes. He held them to his chest and grinned at the flustered John. "You're cute when you're mad," he said out loud, cherishing the surprised look, along with the slight blush, on John's face. 

John looked away to hide the light blush on his cheeks. "Get dressed," he muttered. As he strode off, Sherlock curled his lip into a smirk and entered the bathroom again. He quickly got dressed and looked at himself in the mirror. Something was missing....oh! Shaving. Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance at himself. He opened his the bathroom drawers to grab a razor and shaving cream. He gently shaved the hair around his lower face to make a clean, professional look. He fixed up his hair to give it its natural curly look (the hair was the highlight of his appearance) and straightened out his suit jacket. 

Sherlock left the bathroom and entered the main room again. He saw John sitting in his arm chair, head pointed up toward the ceiling. He looked so bored. "I'm ready," Sherlock muttered as he grabbed his coat off of the coat hook next to him. He slipped it on and turned to see John looking at him with his mouth slightly agape. Sherlock looked at the doctor with confusion. "Did I do something wrong? Did I-"

John interrupted with a panicked stammer, "N-No! It's just that - you look very nice. I-I haven't seen you look this nice in ages." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and looked down at his feet. Sherlock rose an eyebrow. That was a compliment. Why was John acting so awkward?

"Oh. Thank you, John. I'm...very flattered." Sherlock cocked his head slightly to the right and looked at John for a few moments. He spotted a hint of longing in the doctor's blue eyes, but didn't quite understand what it was. There was no time to figure it out anyway. They had to get going! Sherlock cleared his throat and changed the subject out of hatred for awkward moments. "We should go." He pulled his coat collar up, opening the door and walking down the stairwell.

John followed behind him quickly. "Yes, yes we should. We don't have much time." He met Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. Sherlock's eyes scanned John's body in sort of a judging way. His coat was missing. John forgot his coat one too many times. 

"You need your coat. It's cold outside."

"Right. I'll go get it-"

Sherlock held out John's coat. He had grabbed it before they went down because he knew John would forget it. "No need," he said with a light chuckle. John looked at him in surprise and took the coat, putting it on. They were about to leave the flat but then they heard a shrill voice.

"Boys! Where are you off to now?" An elderly woman with short, thin brown hair and wide playful eyes came around the corner. She stood near them with a tilt of her head and a toothy smile.

"Out on a case. We won't be long," Sherlock answered before walking out of the flat. He didn't have time to make conversation with the woman. There was no need to, anyway.

John looked at the woman apologetically. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. We're in a bit of a rush." 

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and smiled again. "Have fun. Be back safe. I worry for you two," she replied, playfully punching John in the shoulder and disappearing into the other room. Mrs. Hudson was always such a caring landlady. She treated John and Sherlock like they were her children. Sherlock was particularly fond of her too, but never admitted it.

"Right," John murmured and strode out of the flat. Sherlock was on the sidewalk, his hand up and waving. A black cab appeared shortly after and Sherlock opened the door. He made a gesture to the inside while looking at John. The doctor took the hint and mumbled a 'thank you' as he got into the car. Sherlock slipped in after him and closed the door. 

"Where to, sir?" The cabbie in the front seat, to which Sherlock replied with the location of the place they were supposed to be at. Both of the men stared outside of the window silently as the taxi started to drive away, the buildings and other cars going past their eyes in a blur. 


End file.
